


we traded water for salt

by poacherspride



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poacherspride/pseuds/poacherspride
Summary: “We should go out hunting again some other time, you and me.” Arthur blurts out after they’ve dumped the deer at Mr. Pearson’s feet and Charles is halfway out of the cabin. The words tumble sudden and clumsy from his mouth, like a thought springing forth unbidden. His tone is easy, for once, open, like he wants to tempt Charles into friendship.Charles doesn’t know what to make of that.





	we traded water for salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from [firstwake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yn9Gx692xCk) by silent planet;
> 
> ↳ _we traded water for salt, something whole for something equally as broken as us._

Mount Hagen is a steep climb, a fight to keep themselves on track as a blizzard whips at them and wipes their trail out like it was never there in the first place. It’s no good, Charles thinks as he sits at the reigns, steering in the dark. It’s no good, and he can’t even see what’s in front of him. If he’d had his way, they would have never been chased up a mountain, but Charles is only a follower and his silence is worth as much as his word is, so he always chooses the former in these matters, avoiding a reprimand. 

His mouth swirls bitter with the aftertaste of blood and smoke and gunpowder, and his lungs are stained black with soot; a harsh pull on the reigns reminds him of the hurt too, the flesh of his palm splitting open and he gives out a pained grunt, a sound swallowed by the wind. The burn beats like a second heart, wrapped in bandages and broken skin. He ignores it.

Colter is only a ghost town, barely there and undone by time. It comes as sanctuary to them, blessed almost. A miracle, Reverend Swanson calls it as rotten bones come into view, as though it had sprung from nowhere and just for them. They carry Davey inside and no one will acknowledge the way his skin is as pale as the snowflakes tangled in his hair; even if the man wasn’t particularly loved and not many will miss him, Charles feels as though one more body will break the bough. Abigail takes one good look at him, and Charles knows well what she’ll say before she even does. “Davey is dead.” Jenny is too, and the whole thing is a goddamn mess.

When the blizzard dies down, Dutch and the rest of them are long gone. Charles aids with what he can and even with what he cannot, and Mrs. Grimshaw fusses about how he shouldn’t and doesn’t have to, but Charles can't stand kicking his heels and doing not much else. _An idle mind is the devil's playground_ , his father always used to say. Maybe that's the reason why Charles turned out so rotten, too much time on his hands, too much idleness. Too much of nothing.

They make the place looks half-decent by the time Dutch returns, and Charles can almost hear the victory march that undoubtedly plays in his head every time he returns from a venture outside camp; an undercurrent of drums and trumpets, a king’s welcome. _An American king and his knights_. Uncle called him, called them all once. Charles has never felt like quite like one, not when he brandishes his shotgun, or afterwards, when there's only bodies and earth stained red. He holds no illusions as to who or what they are.

There’s a pale slip of a woman with them, swaddled in blankets like a babe but she shakes and shivers all the same. Her blonde hair shines like polished gold in the lantern’s warm glow and there’s a wild look in her eyes that sends a chill through Charles. A widow, Dutch says with pity, and they take her in. Even in times like these, there is goodness, Charles finds himself thinking as he watches the women take her away and whisper soothing words. Small mercies are all there left for comfort and he clings to them, even if he won't admit it to himself or anyone else.

Later, Charles lies on the cold hard ground, counting bullets the way others count sheep, settled and dismissed by Dutch. The moon shines through the grimy windows of the cabin and the shadows of branches sway over his face like bony fingers, tapping and scratching against the glass like they’re begging to be let in. It’s a cold place, dirty and dusty and smelling of mold and things long forgotten, but it's better than nothing at all, better than freezing to death. They say you feel nothing by the end, that death comes like sleep and that is all there is to it, but neither sleep nor death come and all Charles can do is lie on the ground torturing himself with the what ifs and the buts, with the sight of deputies swarming their camp and raining hellfire on them. The need to reach backwards and make things better warms him through the worst of it, something he can't shake even though he knows it's futile and stupid. 

He tries to drift into sleep, beyond the chorus of gunshots and shouting, and pretends it's only a nightmare instead of something real, something that happened. Maybe he'll wake and everything will be fine, maybe not, and he knows there’s no use in lamenting now, but he still does. Never did he think death and blood would be what he bargained for when he left his father's side but it was all he had now.

He tries not to think of that.

Charles feels a chill run through him, down to his core when he crawls from underneath the covers and makes his way outside, into a world of white. The sun shines pale on them, streaking the sky in gold and pink, hanging high above and far away.

Lenny and him turn to burying Davey safe underneath the shadow of a crumbling chapel. _Committed to the ground_ , as Reverend Swanson would put it were he sober enough to stand, thumbing shakily at his dog-eared scriptures, trembling from the cold or from the shakes or from both. _Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust_. Charles remembers the words, an incessant echo they had forced him to repeat a million times, forced him to believe, but he wouldn't. It bounces around his skull as he places the last stone on Davey’s grave with a loud _clack_. There's no sense found in the words of a god that isn’t his, no comfort either.

“Poor bastard.” Lenny says to no one in particular, words puffing white in the cold. He rubs his hands together and shivers, digs through his coat and fishes out a pack of cigarettes. “All that talk and look how sad he went out.” He turns to Charles, begging question. “What he said? A hail of bullets?”

“Blood and glory.” Charles finishes and hears a snort come from Lenny. He remembers the declaration, staunch and proud and drunk over the campfire, loud enough for even Charles to hear as he stood sentry. _That's how I will go._ He spoke so sure of his fate, so proud of what awaited him one day.

"What an idiot." Lenny mumbles under his breath, shaking his head. He lights a cigarette and exhales smoke through his nose, and he's young, Charles notices as morning sunlight carves his face into relief, too young, like a boy, almost. The memory gathers in Charles slowly, how he had been just as young if not younger when he killed his first man. He remembers the feeling of a wrong look, the sound of too harsh words and the bullet splitting his head by the end. He doesn’t feel anything at all.

Charles drifts from one end of camp to the other after that, and the days pass him by in a blur of white. He can’t hunt nor run with the men nor do anything of worth, so he drifts instead, lost to the sight of snow and the feel of the cold. He tends to the horses, he smokes, he sometimes drinks to warm himself too, though he keeps from that as much as he can. Today, he rides out of camp to get a feel of the land now that the thaw has begun to settle slowly, to not be so bored as he is. He rides as far as the lake, pitch black like a spill of ink at the mountain's feet; he eyes the line of the woods and wants to ride further, but doesn't.

He stands at the lake's shore, kneeling to dip his fingers into the water until they ache and go numb. The bandages are smudged red and pink and black, he notices, and grimaces., filthy, and growing filthier still with every time that he puts off changing them, every time that he forgets. It’s so easy to forget in times like these, so he doesn’t let the chance slip away into oblivion this time.

On his way back, he spots game on the hills, not plenty, but just enough. He tries to hunt but the pain blinds him, makes the corners of his eyes tighten up. The arrow springs from his bow in a clumsy spiral before landing at the deer's feet and he feels like a fool. 

When he return, so do Arthur and Javier. They bring John with them, who looks more corpse than man as he dangles from the back of Javier's horse. “Fool almost got himself eaten by wolves.” Arthur explains with an edge of scorn to his tone, none too kind and much too prickly, as he always seems to be though Charles doesn't blame him, given the circumstances. He helps Bill pry John away from the saddle, dragging him into the cabin. 

He tends to John’s wounds as best as he can, leaves Abigail to watch over him while he shivers and shakes and sweats out a fever that flushes him scarlet like a newborn babe. “It won’t take him.” He blurts when he catches the sight of stray tears that she quickly wipes away, turning her face from Charles like it'd be a shameful thing for him to see. It's the first time he’s ever seen her cry, he realizes, and he does his best to be reassuring but the sadness in her eyes doesn’t wane. He’s never been very good at it, comfort and other such things. “The fever, I mean.”

“Thank you, Charles.” She says, like she acknowledges the attempt. The smile she offers doesn't reach her eyes. "For taking care of him."

“Don't mention it."

Arthur is there when he drops by Mr. Pearson’s, huddled by the fire and shaking off the cold while Mr. Pearson complains and complains and complains. Of the cold and the lack of food and of being stuck at the ass end of the nowhere and whatnot. "When I was in the Navy-" He begins before Arthur cuts him off, voice sharp and eyes closed in delight as he lets warmth was over him.

"Shut the hell up." Is all he says, spoken plainly and forcefully. Charles wonders if the man has it in him to be kind or to be nice, of if he'll drop dead if he is.

Charles stands on the other side of the fire and tells Arthur of the deer in the hills, keeps the part about failing to hunt one to himself. "Come on." He urges and the man follows not so silently, not so unconcerned by Charles and his burnt hand. He doesn’t need it. "I'm fine." Charles snaps, not as kind as he knows he should be but he's tired of everyone bringing it up all the goddamn time, making him feel useless. Arthur jut stays quiet afterwards, speaking only when spoken to, and when he replies he does so tersely and without much detail. Charles does too, counting his words like he counts bullets.

The tracks lead them to a spot near a quiet stream. Watchful eyes and swift hands, Charles tells Arthur to quiet, offers his bow and watches him nock, draws and lose and miss more times than he can count and every arrow draws the deer further away from them. If Charles didn't know better, hadn't seen the way he works, he'd say he was in the company of a man as green as summer grass instead of one well-versed in hurt. A brute, if he has ever met one.

“Relax.” He says and Arthur only grunts, nocking another arrow, annoyance creasing his brow. He pulls on the sinew with ease, like its nothing to him and holds a breath and misses again. Another arrow. "Your mouth is an anchor," he reminds him, reaching across and taking Athur's hand, cold and scarred. He pulls it down, close to the corner of his mouth in a swift, gentle motion, fingers brushing against the stubble on his cheek. He ignores that, both of them do, focused instead on the task at hand. “Use it."

The arrow springs from Arthur’s bow and buries itself into the deer, a clean and swift death, and there’s a look of mild surprise on his face. He brings down a second one with more ease and less arrows and he seems proud as they stow the carcasses on their horses.

“How’d you get that?” Arthur asks. He sways in his saddle, voice distant, like a memory or a daydream, tearing Charles away from his thoughts. They move at a leisurely pace after having scurried away from a bear, so slowly it feels like they're drawing out a moment’s peace, stretching it so thin Charles is afraid it will snap and send then spiraling again.

“What?”

Arthur’s eyes fall to Charles’ thigh, where his palm rests, five scarred fingers splayed over the worn fabric of his trousers and he points with his chin. “'S a nasty wound you got there. Was wondering how'd you get it.” He says, curious for the first time Charles has ever seen, and his eyes return to Charles’ face, his features half-hidden by the collar of his blue coat and the brim of his black hat. They’re calm, Charles notices, like the sky, and just as blue too; pretty. He shoots down that thought and Arthur faces forward, as if he could somehow read Charles' mind.

“In Blackwater.” Charles says as he stares at it, turns it over and looks at where the wound has bled through, a pink stain in the middle of his palm. From earlier, probably; he hadn’t even feel the tear. “Can’t remember how though.” It’s an unconvincing lie, as terrible as they come, because Charles does remember when he grabbed the hot rifle barrel without a second thought and steered it away. It hadn’t ached then, because there had been no room to think of pain, but it sure ached afterwards, still does now.

 _I saved your life_. He thinks but doesn’t say it, because there’s no way of that being put out there without Charles sounding like he wants something in return for it, and he really doesn’t. Arthur only gives a “Hmph.” as an answer, man of few words and all that. Charles wonders if he’s seen through it.

Probably not.

“We should go out hunting again some other time, you and me.” Arthur blurts out after they’ve dumped the deer at Mr. Pearson’s feet and Charles is halfway out of the cabin. The words tumble sudden and clumsy from his mouth, like a thought springing forth unbidden. His tone is easy, for once, open, like he wants to tempt Charles into friendship. 

Charles doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“When your hand’s feeling better. If you want to.” Arthur scratches the shadow of a week-old beard and clears his throat. There’s doubt in his eyes, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s sending Charles off. “But either way, don’t let me keep you.”.

There's only a bit of surprise, before he quickly eases back into that thoughtful lull of his. “I’ll hold you to that.” Charles says, and his tone is so stern it almost sounds like a warning, but it's not. It’s a promise, more like, a debt to be collected sometime, someday, if they manage to live that long.

“Yeah,” The corners of Arthur’s mouth darken in a smile that Charles returns in equal measure, small and barely seen, like it’s all he can offer. “Yeah, you do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started writing this MONTHS ago and didn't even wanna look at it after finishing the main storyline 💔 but i'm back on the bs so i'm finally posting. if u catch any mistakes, pls let me know!  
> comments are appreciated and thank u for reading!


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